The Malefactor eBook

BOOK II

I. “Mr. Wingrave, From America”
II. The Shadow of a Fear
III. Juliet Asks Questions
IV. Lady Ruth’s Last Card
V. Guardian and Ward
VI. Ghosts of Dead Things.
VII. Spreading the Net
VIII. In the Toils
IX. The Indiscretion of the Marchioness
X. “I am Misanthropos, and Hate Mankind”
XI. Juliet Gains Experience
XII. Nemesis at Work
XIII. Richardson Tries Again
XIV. “It Was an Accident”
XV. Aynesworth Plans a Love Story
XVI. A Deed of Gift
XVII. For Pity’s Sake
XVIII. A Dream of Paradise
XIX. The Awakening
XX. Revenge is—­Bitter
XXI. The Way of Peace
XXII. “Love Shall Make all Things New”

Book I

A SOCIETY SCANDAL

Tall and burly, with features and skin hardened by
exposure to the sun and winds of many climates, he
looked like a man ready to face all hardships, equal
to any emergency. Already one seemed to see the
clothes and habits of civilization falling away from
him, the former to be replaced by the stern, unlovely
outfit of the war correspondent who plays the game.
They crowded round him in the club smoking room, for
these were his last few minutes. They had dined
him, toasted him, and the club loving cup had been
drained to his success and his safe return. For
Lovell was a popular member of this very Bohemian
gathering, and he was going to the Far East, at a few
hours’ notice, to represent one of the greatest
of English dailies.

A pale, slight young man, who stood at this right
hand, was speaking. His name was Walter Aynesworth,
and he was a writer of short stories—­ a
novelist in embryo.

“What I envy you most, Lovell,” he declared,
“is your escape from the deadly routine of our
day by day life. Here in London it seems to me
that we live the life of automatons. We lunch,
we dine, we amuse or we bore ourselves, and we sleep—­and
all the rest of the world does the same. Passion
we have outgrown, emotion we have destroyed by analysis.
The storms which shake humanity break over other countries.
What is there left to us of life? Civilization
ministers too easily to our needs, existence has become
a habit. No wonder that we are a tired race.”

“Life is the same, the world over,” another
man remarked. “With every forward step
in civilization, life must become more mechanical.
London is no worse than Paris, or Paris than Tokyo.”

Aynesworth shook his head. “I don’t
agree with you,” he replied. “It
is the same, more or less, with all European countries,
but the Saxon temperament, with its mixture of philosophy
and philistinism, more than any other, gravitates
towards the life mechanical. Existence here has
become fossilized. We wear a mask upon our faces;
we carry a gauge for our emotions. Lovell is
going where the one great force of primitive life
remains. He is going to see war. He is going
to breathe an atmosphere hot with naked passion; he
is going to rub shoulders with men who walk hand in
hand with death. That’s the sort of tonic
we all want, to remind us that we are human beings
with blood in our veins, and not sawdust-stuffed dolls.”